


I'll Sleep Beneath Your Shade

by Miri1984



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, aggressive insistence on self care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:21:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21773620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984
Summary: Grizzop and Wilde have never seen eye to eye. But circumstances make friends of all of us.
Relationships: Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 8
Kudos: 74
Collections: Rusty Quill Secret Santa 2019





	I'll Sleep Beneath Your Shade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neutronbutt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neutronbutt/gifts).



He doesn’t like Wilde at  _ all.  _ He’s been looked at like that by far too many humans in his short life and he doesn’t register that that’s just the way Wilde looks at everyone (he talks to everyone like that, Sasha says, but Sasha is human herself and wouldn’t really  _ know). _

Wilde looks at Grizzop like a tool to be used, like an asset. Eva never looked at him like that. Sasha doesn’t look at him like that. Bertie doesn’t look at him at all if Grizzop can avoid it.

At least Wilde gives him work to do. At least Wilde is useful. 

He’s a horrible person, but he’s useful. So Grizzop will work with him, if he has to, and Grizzop will get the job done, because he’s  _ good at it,  _ and he doesn’t need Wilde to tell him so.

#

He can’t remember hitting the desk, can’t remember much really, beyond days, weeks, months of constant anxiety and worry and heart thumping, bone chilling dreams. The hand that holds the back of his head is small, sinewy and strong, gripping so tightly that the hairs are beginning to tear, the voice that he can hear echoing through the hollow tomb that his head has become is achingly familiar.

“Wilde. Wilde wake up. Wilde… this is  _ useless.” _

He hears murmuring then, and a wash of magic over his skin that should help, it really should, he can feel the touch of a god in it, the touch of someone’s fierce and utter devotion.

He should recognise the voice. He blinks, able to keep his head upright now, at least. 

“What have you been _ doing?” _ It’s Grizzop. Of course it is. Wilde blinks into self righteous red eyes that are on a level with his despite him being sat down and the goblin practically vibrating on the tips of his toes, adding a full inch to his height.

“I have no idea,” Oscar murmurs, and the noise that Grizzop lets out at that almost makes Oscar smile, exasperation, fury,  _ was that a touch of worry? _

The last time Oscar saw Grizzop he had been glaring at him in the bright sun of the mountain in Damascus, daring him to admit he wasn’t fine.

The time before that, he’d punched Oscar in the groin. 

Why was his tiny, determined face so comforting?

#

Grizzop doesn’t have  _ time  _ for this. He doesn’t have time to babysit a fully grown human who is supposed to be useful, who is supposed to be in control, who is supposed to be at least halfway competent. Sasha and Hamid need him. Azu is in  _ trouble.  _

_ Vesseek is... _

The world needs to stop hurting people he loves.

He marches Wilde towards the temple of Artemis, watching the man’s back, waiting for him to stumble or fall. Wilde’s at the end of his physical endurance, hasn’t even bothered to prestidigitate himself, and he looks awful, crusted blood still visible behind his ears, perfect suit ruffled. Grizzop hovers, hands ready to catch him if he falls, but how the hell he’d manage to keep six feet two of solid Wilde on his feet without levitation magic is ramping up his anxiety. If Wilde falls he’ll have to run back and get Bronk, or just drag him the rest of the way to Artemis’ temple, and while it wouldn’t be the first time he’d dragged a mark into a temple he’d  _ just watched three of his friends disappear to try to save the person in the world who is most important to him and he couldn’t go with them he couldn’t he had sworn an oath he needs to get this done he is… _

He is…

Grizzop is tired too.

Wilde, though, puts one foot after the other mechanically, in the dust and dirt of the Cairo street, and he doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t stumble, and he doesn’t waste time on talking or asking questions or looking at Grizzop like he’s a tool to be used and when they get to the door of the temple he just leans on the frame of it with one hand, head down, even the curls hanging next to his face looking limp and tired.

“You okay?” Grizzop can’t help but ask, and his voice is  _ too gentle _ , dammit.

Wilde does look at him then, and there’s no artifice in it. 

“No,” he says shortly, and before he can stop himself, Grizzop pats his hip in something like comfort.

He drops the hand fast when the doors open and they usher Wilde inside.

#

People don’t realise it, but it’s been a long time since Wilde’s been worried about propriety. Other people  _ thinking  _ he is worried about propriety is the key to how he goes about his business. Of course he takes advantage of his looks and his image for his work, but it’s not what’s important. The mind beneath is what matters.

In any case, being stripped naked in front of a gnome and a goblin to find out if he’s infected with shackle worms is hardly the worst thing that’s happened to him. Grizzop doesn’t need the performance. Grizzop never cared about it.

There is something so refreshing about that.

He trusts Grizzop. He trusts Grizzop implicitly. For the first time in months he feels cared for, watched over. Even the heated gaze of Apophis in Cairo hadn’t ever felt as reassuring as Grizzop’s incessant questions, his relentless energy.

Grizzop’s fingers on his skull are gentle and cool as he shaves his head. The sharp edge of his dagger scrapes pleasantly against his skin, and Oscar realises that this examination is... it’s the first time he’s been touched since he left London.   
He almost laughs at that, as the first curl of hair hits the bench he’s sitting on. He reaches out and picks it up, cradling it in his hands, meticulously collects the others that fall around him, without knowing why.

They’re talking again, rapid fire, too fast for Oscar to follow. In the end Grizzop leaves and Oscar opens his mouth to ask him to stay but closes it again. Grizzop has things to do. 

They put anti-magic shackles on him and lead him to a bed. He lies down, the way he has done for the past few weeks, resigned to waking up again in a few seconds. He closes his eyes.

#

Oscar Wilde is drooling a little out of the corner of his mouth as he sleeps. His freshly shaved head accentuates the hollowness in his cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes, but he looks better than he had, twenty hours ago. There is a flush of colour under his skin and his breath is long, slow and even.

“Good,” Grizzop says to himself, and doesn’t ask himself why.

#

When Grizzop leaves to find Eldarion, Wilde rests his head in his hands, and for the first time in decades, frames a small prayer to Artemis. He doesn’t get a response, but that’s not a surprise. The gods have never seen fit to favour him with their attention and that is precisely how he likes it. He’s still tired, so very tired, but he’s alive, and they have a fighting chance.


End file.
